


a love language of food

by smthwallflower



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Comfort Food, F/F, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Love, Olden Times, Ramadan, Religion, Tea, respectful discourse on religion and identity crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:49:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26766064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smthwallflower/pseuds/smthwallflower
Summary: Snippet fic(s), where Quỳnh brews a pot of special tea to share with Andromache shortly after they meet. Fluff and love and literal sunshine.Oh look, a Chapter 2 with Nicolò di Genova and Yusuf al-Kaysani where they're coping with immortality and religion.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia & Quynh | Noriko, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

They break bread as the sun rises. 

Then Quỳnh puts her pouch of dried leaves and roots into the pot they’d found, letting it all steep in the gently rolling water. It’s an odd ritual, and Andromache watches with what amounts to a wrinkled nose. Some of the roots have a pungent fragrance, but Quỳnh is proving to be very interesting so far, and so Andromache is willing to try this thing. Once the water boils, Quỳnh shifts the pot out of the flames, then holds up a staying hand. 

Andromache nods; this is different then the typical ritual with the other leaves, when there are less roots. This time it is more significant, somehow. 

Patience has become commonplace for her. This strange existence she’s living still has no name, but she is no longer alone. All she knows is that she has the capacity to wait. 

The sun rises completely over the rolling hills, one of Quỳnh’s eyes squinting against its bright beams. The light saturates the colour of Quỳnh’s skin, intensifying its hue until Andromache feels the need to reach out and touch it, touch her - but she stays herself. She needs to know first: is it the intrigue of the sun playing across Quỳnh’s skin that provokes the urge to touch, or is it Quỳnh herself? 

The beams cause Quỳnh’s nose to cast a shadow on the opposite side of her face, cutting across the expanse of her soft cheek. The shadow creeps further and further down diagonally until the concoction is finished and it is then that she finally turns her face completely towards the sun, towards Andromache, and holds out a wooden cup. 

Steam curls outward from the top of the cup, the liquid filled almost to the brim.

“< Tea, from home, >” Quỳnh offers, pointing at herself and then raising her hand to her mouth to show that Andromache should drink. Andromache takes the cup, suspicious of this new combination of words. 

What a language, Quỳnh speaks. Andromache finds herself grasping more of it each day. 

“< Drink, >” Andromache replies in her own language, one that’s already starting to shrink from the populations they encounter. “< Tea, >” she translates, the Vietnamese clumsy against her tongue.

Andromache sniffs at it (the pungent aroma has faded somewhat, replaced with what might be sweetness?) and takes a tentative sip. 

It’s a foreign taste: one of the earth, of the stones, of grassy water, of all the different kinds of wood; smoke and flame, and a pleasant trace of citrus that chases the rest of the tastes down her throat. 

Quỳnh is looking at her expectantly, her eyes catching the full force of the sun. The brown inside of them has turned into the deep weathered colour of a sapling constantly splashed at by a too-close stream. 

They shine with eagerness and excitement and pleasure and hope. 

There are many things that Andromache has eaten that have brought back memories of her own home, but this is the first time that she has tried something that tastes like Quỳnh. 

“< Good, >” she tells Quỳnh with a pleased smile, because she learnt that word while they were riding horses across the plains between Quỳnh’s place of origin and her own, and she knows that it means this feeling of here, of two people together, of two people connected inexplicably and irrevocably. 

They are intertwined, just like all the tastes that chase each other in her cup, through her mouth and down her throat. Blending and mixing and being.

Andromache takes another sip and watches as Quỳnh’s smile opens up her eyes even more, pushes her shoulders down and lifts up her chest. This < tea > is Quỳnh, and they are here together, and will be together perhaps forever. 

And perhaps then, this will not be a curse. 

“< Very good. >”


	2. Nicolò di Genova and Yusuf al-Kaysani

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if I've gotten something tragically wrong (I did try to research, but that can never make up for lived experience). I will 100% edit anything that needs adjusting.

The infuriating man was now starving himself. 

Nicolò had first noticed it two days ago when Yusuf did not share in the breakfast of berries and mushrooms that Nicolò had picked, nor in the mid-day meal of a freshly caught fish that Nicolò cooked over the flame. The fish had even been that most beautiful colour of sun reflecting in the water, shimmering and bright, its flesh tender and juicy. 

That time he had been genuinely surprised by the rejection his offer had received; typically Yusuf was not adverse to stream- or ocean-faring creatures. 

There had been no water consumed by Yusuf either, and the loaf of bread Nicolò had traded the second fish for remained uneaten despite the fact he’d left it next to Yusuf’s head, for when the man woke from his sleep. 

Now the crust was hard, and Nicolò sops the butt of the bread into his bowl of goat milk to soften it, staring at his companion with curiosity, frustration, and confusion. A perfectly wholesome and delicious loaf, untouched throughout the night, within arms reach of a man who must be starved - but why? 

In a world that was filled with so many uncertainties, Nicolò was beginning to wonder if there was anyone who would be able to ascend when their end came. He was starting to question the teachings of the Church, the purity and piety the clergy promised if only the word of the Bible was observed. 

Life after death had been a future worthy of sacrifice, a comfort in this dark and terrible world, but now that death seemed not an option, life was all he had. So where did living leave him?

They were both abominations, him and Yusuf, but that, and the nightmares, were quickly becoming only the first things that tied them together. 

This extended fasting though, was something new. 

< Why do you look at me so? > Yusuf asks from across the fire without looking up from it. The man had picked up the nuances of Ligurian much more quickly than Nicolò would have thought possible. Nicolò is aware that he has been staring, but he had not expected it to be commented upon. 

< Can a man not look upon his eternally-damned adversary without need of comment? > Nicolò queries. Then he bites into his bread, considering his next words more carefully; words that won’t blossom from decades of indoctrinated reactivity. 

In the meanwhile, Yusuf regards him with light amusement in his eyes, reflective of that maddening ease with which he seemed to view the entirety of the world. < Not when that man is you, Nicolò, > he says kindly, and Nicolò frowns at him. 

< Why do you starve yourself? > he finally asks, < Have we not died enough creative deaths? Do you search for an end different from those I have attempted to provide for you? >

Yusuf inhales deeply at the conclusion of Nicolò’s questions, and his head tilts to the side as he considers Nicolò. 

When there is no answer forthcoming, Nicolò asks, < Is the food not good? >

< The food is fine, > Yusuf reassures with a smile, and Nicolò looks away; if the food is fine, then perhaps it is a personal issue. 

< Have I offended you in some way, > he asks, and Yusuf leans back a little at that, bemusement playing across his lips. 

< Why do you think my abstinence is a consequence of any action of your doing? >

The reactivity blossoms again in Nicolò’s chest, but the words that come with it he knows are childish and trite in comparison to the question Yusuf is asking. 

The root of the responsibility for actions and circumstances that are not his own stem from his understanding of morality: if he was able to provide and be pure, the world ought to reflect that. And if not this world, then the next. So when the world was chaos and degeneracy, he was to battle for order and peace. To be a champion for those who could not or would not provide it for themselves. 

Nicolò was providing for Yusuf, taking on the burden of sustenance. What other reason was there to decline it, if not because of the one who provided it? 

< Why else starve yourself, when food is plentiful and we’ve time to enjoy it? >

Yusuf folds his arms over his chest, leans back against the tree behind him. < The crescent moon appeared three nights ago. Ramadan has started, and so I fast. From sunrise, to sunset. Surely you are familiar. >

Ah, that fast - Nicolò recalls chattering now, and he’s not sure why he feels so hurt by the idea. < We sit before each other, teetering between blasphemy and purgatory - and yet you still fast for your God? > Was Yusuf not questioning the teaching of his religion the same as Nicolò was? Was he not struggling with the thought of eternal damnation in this world? 

There is concern in Yusuf’s eyes, a caring that Nicolò doesn’t understand the origin of. < Nicolò, this trial is my own. It does not belong to Allah. You do not feel the same? >

< God has sent me down this path; the Crusade is God’s will. >

Yusuf gives him a patient look; the same one that was upon his face when he offered Nicolò a lamb stew that had more spices and herbs than Nicolò expected a dish could have. < It is written in your Bible to kill and conquer? > he asks doubtfully. 

< Of course not. > Killing and conquering were acts of heathens and barbarians. < It is to spread the word. And to liberate those who do not know better. >

Yusuf shakes his head, though his disagreement carries no heat. < Violence towards any end is not the way of Allah, and it is not the way of your God. I know you know this. >

Nicolò turns back to his bowl of milk, the bread in his hand now soggy enough at the bottom that it drips right into his mouth. 

What did Yusuf know of God? Nothing. 

…though he was right. Violence was not God’s explicit will. Yet even the papacy had encouraged the righteousness of the cause. Was it possible that the entirety of the church had been wrong in this, and Yusuf, a Muslim, was right? It was a thought that would require further contemplation. 

< I left you food for the night, > Nicolò points out, and even to his own ears it sounds petulant. < You didn’t eat it. >

This makes Yusuf laugh, softly, and he points at Nicolò and smiles, < For I knew how you would enjoy it, and wanted to save the pleasure for you. >

Nicolò frowns, wanting to rebuff the kindness. But once the wave of indignation passes, underneath the compromised pride, he can feel a deep appreciation for his companion. A kindness and compassion towards him that stemmed not from duty, but from a genuine interest and enjoyment of his character. Yet another thing that would require further thought and contemplation. Nicolò finishes eating his bread and drinks the remaining milk from the bowl. 

< The next time I will eat it, > Yusuf says gallantly after the short silence, < For I did not know of the sorrow it would bring you to shun the gesture. >

Nicolò scowls at him presently, and avoids any offerings to Yusuf for the remainder of Ramandan, allowing the man the peace and privacy to observe his own rituals. 

Truth be told, he wants to avoid another conversation such as this one. 

There is still so much to learn. 

And so much, Nicolò is starting to think, that he must unlearn as well.


End file.
